From Hell, With Love
by the fuzzy nosed wombat
Summary: Some time after the end of DBZ, Piccolo writes a few letters to an unknown recipient, detailing his past, his present, and his thoughts on the future. Conclusion.
1. Default Chapter

Hey there

_Hey there! The fuzzy nosed wombat's here just in time for an author's note to her first fanfic, From Hell, With Love. Required Synopsis: From the depths of hell, some time after the end of DBZ, Piccolo writes a few letters to an unknown recipient, detailing his past, his present, and his thoughts on the future. _

_I don't own DBZ; if I did, I wouldn't be writing dumb stories about it. However, there are many original characters in this narrative. A good rule of thumb is: if you don't recognize it, it's mine._

_And, oh yeah, don't bother to point out the huge discrepancies of this story in relation to the series. I assure you that I'm already well aware of them. Otherwise, review nicely and as often as possible. Enjoy!_

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**This story contains scenes of violence, in addition to coarse language. If this offends you, hit the "back" button now.**

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From Hell, With Love

Dear Person, Recipient, Someone,

Dear Someone. How disgustingly quaint. Am I reduced to this now? Reduced to scrawling out prayers to strangers on whatever scraps of paper I can lay my hands on? Oh how low do the mighty fall. Personally, I'd prefer to think this an exercise in boredom, but I know better than that. Have fun, dear Someone, because this is going to be one hell of a ride.

I am Piccolo Daimao, one of the greatest warriors the world has ever known. I was once feared and hated across the entire planet. I didn't mind. I enjoyed it even.

Now I'm dead. 

Well, life's a bitch and then you die. Isn't that what they say? Certainly true in my case. Life's been a bitch since the day I came into it, and it has not significantly improved since. I am in Hell, after all, and I'm inclined to believe that if you find yourself in Hell, your life probably wasn't a party. People don't do the kinds of things that land you here if they've had a nice life. They probably don't even need that. A nice childhood is all that's required to set you straight. If you are not lucky enough to have that, then you end up here, in the pit, with murderers like me. 

Murderers like me. 

Murderers are not born, they are made. I was made by what was most likely the best school in the world: the streets of Cairo. It wasn't a good place to be in my time. Luckily, I suppose, I was picked up by the local drug dealer to be his newest slave, before I had a chance to expire from lack of water, shelter, or to be killed by whatever mob that decided they didn't like my face. That would be all of them. A little green kid doesn't come along very often, and people like to have "fun" with an oddity in their midst.

His leering face was close enough to mine that our noses almost touched. His beady eyes widened as he took in my frightened countenance, blowing a puff of stale smoke into a cloud that enveloped us. "Fucking Hell," he whispered with awe. "You're green!"

I paused, then nodded my head mutely, waiting for the blows I knew would come. They didn't. Not yet.

The repulsive man stared a moment longer, taking a long pull on his cigarette before saying anything. When he did, the words came out, wreathed in smoke as before. "I think I might 'ave a use fer a little freak like you. How's about you come with me?"

I didn't want to, not that it mattered much. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he had grabbed my arm in a bone-crushing grip. I was too small to do anything about it. He hauled me into a dark, narrow alley and down another, and another before stopping in front of the squat, ugly building that was to be my home for the next six years. He practically threw me in the door.

The building was as ugly inside as it was outside. Piles of dirt and filth rested on the floor, apparently lying undisturbed for years. A battered table with matching chairs stood in a corner as the only adornment to the one downstairs room. A rickety ladder, its rungs worn smooth from frequent use, led from the current dank hole up into the next by way of a roughly hewn opening in the ceiling. The doorway provided the only light.

"Pretty, isn't it," chuckled the skinny man who had brought me here. "You'll learn t'love it, I promise."

I knew better than to answer. 

After some time, he turned and looked down at me. "Why the hell are you still here?" he asked. "Get upstairs with the rest of the kids."

I climbed the ladder with only minor difficulty, taking into account my tiny stature, and stepped into the room. I had a few minutes to take in all the small, pinched faces surrounding me as they all stared at my abnormalities. Shyly, I moved to an unoccupied corner of the room, sat down, and tried my best to avoid their eyes.

A few minutes later, the man, Jim, barked an order. All the children got up quickly and scrambled down the ladder. It was easy to notice how pitifully thin they all were. They did not get much food. 

Taking my cue from them, I dashed down the ladder as quickly as I could. He looked at the assembled group of street trash for a long time before finally pointing at one. The young boy trembled as he stepped forward.

Jim asked, "What happened to yer last shipment, boy?"

The boy looked down, a shock of brown hair falling into his eyes. "I... I lost it, sir."

"Aww, you lost it. What are we gonna do about this?"

"Find it, sir?"

"No, I don't think so." Jim turned and picked up a large steel bar that was sitting in the corner. He swung it easily, almost casually, into the boy's leg. There was an audible snap. The bar continued on its deadly arc and came lashing down across the boy's thin back, smashing him to the ground. Jim swung the bar a few more times until the boy was still.

There was silence in the room. Jim pointed a finger at me. "You," he said, "go take him out back and get rid of him."

I was too numb with shock to move.

"NOW!" he roared.

Jumping slightly, I darted forward into the center of the room, took the still-warm body and dragged it outside with some trouble. It was dumped unceremoniously into the dumpster among the other discarded trash. This is what happened to you if you screwed up. I looked for a moment at the young body, turned away with revulsion, and vomited onto the corner of the building.

Such was my life when I was a little kid. Not too pleasant, is it? That would be considered a good day. I was treated as a sort of under-servant; a slave to the slaves that were the other children. Accordingly, I was beaten to within an inch of my life every time I did something wrong, looked at someone funny, or if Jim felt like it. He kept me around as a sort of novelty, I think, like a pet snake or rat. 

I spent days under torture in the cramped, stuffy cellar of the home. The darkness was overwhelming, and the walls would seem to close in on me, leaving me without air. I was known to faint from the fear alone. The claustrophobia stayed with me for years after, making me unwilling to enter any small room or home.

Naturally, I learned to hate my captors. I would wish them dead every time they walked by. If only looks could kill...

This hate served me well, however, it was the key to unlocking my power it seemed. Every ki user has a trigger that releases their power for the first time. For most, it is a desire to protect, a powerful love, or self-preservation. For me, it was self-preservation, hate, and a healthy desire for bloodshed. This hate had its culmination when I was being beaten once when I was about ten. I just started to concentrate on an image of Jim in my mind: Jim screaming, as I was then, Jim bleeding, Jim dying. It worked quite effectively, reducing the entire city block to ash. Jim no longer existed to torment me.

I was finally able to escape from Cairo and get out on my own in the desert.

You see? Is it really my fault that I'm here? My mind is filled with such memories of hate and bloodshed. Pain was, and is all that I've ever known. I hated the human race because of this. They hurt me, so I would hurt them. It was the way it worked and seemed completely fair to my mind. What would you have done, Someone? Would you have lain down and died? Would you have given up and given in to the pain? Or would you have fought like me; bringing only more pain on yourself, but becoming stronger and priding yourself on that strength. Becoming so hardened that nothing could get through your shield, good or bad, so that you would never be hurt again. 

If it were up to you, dear Someone, what would you choose?

From the pits of Hell,

Piccolo Daimao


	2. Demon King

Hi

_Hi! The fuzzy nosed wombat has returned for Chap. 2! Thanks so much to those of you who reviewed, I really appreciate it._

_To clear up some confusion: the Piccolo in this story is the one we see in DBZ, but with some minor changes in order to make the story more manageable. For example: In the story, he grows up at a regular human rate instead of the ridiculous age in the series, where he's actually only about 8 years old when he starts training Gohan. I know that making him older seriously messes with the time line, but if you don't think too much about it, it should be okay. There are also a few other changes that I'm sure you'll pick up as the story progresses. Does that clear it up, Ysabet?_

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From Hell, With Love

Dear Someone,

Well, that's not so bad. One gets used to writing drivel after a time, it seems. I'm back. Does it surprise you? It sure surprises the hell out of me. I have to do something, though, or I should certainly go mad in this place. Writing is one way to alleviate the boredom and reading is another. 

After doing some of this reading, I have to say I don't agree with a certain Mr. Shakespeare. What's in a name indeed! I would say that there is much to be said for a name. I have had many. Take Majr, for example. That was my name when I lived in Cairo. I grew to hate that name, and I discarded it as soon as a better came along. The choice was simple for me: Majr was a slave, Piccolo was a king. The second I had a chance to realize my origin, and my destiny as a King of demons, I jumped at the chance to become more than the Desert Prince of the Bedouin, or the wood god of various jungle-dwelling, African tribes.

They had all feared me for my sudden rage, or for my desperation when cornered, or the fact that I would be discovered sneaking into camps at night to steal only enough water to fill my bottle and wet my throat. They would oppose me, and I would flee, easily overpowering them with this new energy that I had discovered inside me the night I ran away from Cairo. Some tribes loved me for what they perceived as my unusual wildness, and the way I would slip away, ghostlike, into the trees, never to be seen again until months later as if in a vision. They worshipped me as a sort of minor god or devil, to be honoured if I was the one, to be placated if I was the other, and I laughed at them for their foolishness either way.

No, neither of these things was for me. I longed for the darkness now, for that unspeakable thing that could make me great. Listening to the words of a certain short, chubby little man who rides a flying carpet, I learned of my father: of his evil deeds, of his power, and of his desire to have a son.

Slipping into the Steel Palace, my father's answer to Kami's Lookout, I took the title, the name, the power, and the memories of my father, who had once been a King.

I walked slowly down the hall, the tapping of my feet echoing loudly through the vaulted arches of the ceiling. Silver, gold, and all manner of precious stones glittered around me from the walls of the palace, providing light in the fundamental darkness that formed the interior of this monument to evil. I swung the doors wide open to look upon a room that had lain undisturbed my entire lifetime. 

It was beautiful. The darkness inside seemed to stretch out forever. Infinity lay encompassed in that space, waiting for me to join it. It confused the senses and played tricks on the mind. I looked up and marveled at the stars set high above me almost as though they were caught in a perpetual night. They were cold, however; they sent a chill down my spine. They lit the room with their constant, silvery light.

And then I felt it; clear as if a hand had touched my shoulder. There was a presence in this room. There was incredible power to be found somewhere in here, just waiting for me. I recognized it for what it was, the terrible power of the Demon King, the power of the darkness, the power that would soon be mine. 

As I opened myself to it, everything around me, the tap of my boots, the familiar swish of my cape, even the brilliant starlight above me grew pale and dim when I touched this power. I was oblivious to everything but the pulsating energy that surrounded my body.

When I heard the Demon King's laughter echo through my mind, I was afraid. I knew in that moment exactly what it was I had done. A horror went through me as I realized I was one with my father. I fought it at first, but soon lost the will to do so in the rush of energy inside me. I never heard his voice again, but I did feel his wants and his desires, and for a long time, they ruled me.

My father's memories were meant to madden, it seemed. He was a cunning bastard, knowing well what kinds of images he wished to leave behind to his son. He would live on through my actions, and take his revenge with them also. These memories inflamed me with a lust for blood and carnage that has never completely released its hold upon my soul. I desired revenge on all those who had ever wronged me with a passion that I found terrifying, yet irresistibly compelling.

Was it possession? I don't doubt it. My father had all kinds of magical abilities working for him. I did too, however mine were much more raw and uncontrolled. I wasn't experienced enough to ward off the attack, or to even recognize it for what it was: imprisonment and yet another form of slavery. All I had wanted was the power to defend myself against my enemies, and to find a new life for myself, away from those who hated me. I got my wish, though it nearly destroyed me.

This compulsion naturally took me to Cairo, the site of my greatest pain. I destroyed it, burning it to the ground. I heard the screams as though they were far away in a dream. I was so cold that I felt nothing as I killed. This only made me stronger as I ignored the pleading cries of the people begging for mercy. I destroyed most of the Egyptian nation, I believe, and to this day I cannot truly say that I regret doing it.

I don't regret anything I've done, despite the fact that most people seem to want me to. They expect repentance, it makes them feel more comfortable knowing that I'm sorry for all the bad things that I've done and I'm just waiting to turn over a new leaf and start anew as a sweet, loving little Namek.

Makes you sick. If I looked back at every decision I've made to wonder if it was the right choice, I wouldn't get anywhere. I'm a pragmatist; it's as simple as that. If it works, I'll do it, and I'll follow up with the appropriate actions. It gets the job done. No regrets. 

I've also never been afraid, never done anything embarrassing, and never needed help from anybody.

I'm an excellent liar, don't you think? 

From Hell, with love,

Piccolo Daimao

P.S.: I like the sound of that, don't you, Someone? From Hell, with love. It's almost perfect.


	3. Flight

Dear Someone,

_Hi again! Sorry it took so long this time, what with summer vacation and FF.net crashing, but here it is. Thanks again for all the reviews!_

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From Hell, With Love

Dear Someone,

I have to get out. I can't take it anymore, being locked here with nothing to do or see. I need to feel the sun on my face, to smell the green things growing under an endless sky. I want to fly again in complete freedom, something that I have so rarely enjoyed in my lifetime, and not at all since my death.

I remember discovering I could fly. Suppose you were positive that you were going to die from a fall so long you even had time to think about your imminent destruction. And something inside you screams out against this certainty, pushing it away into impossibility. Only birds can fly, I had known for a fact until that day when I felt my will reaching out around me, buoying me upwards as lightly as one of the feathers from the wing of just such a bird. I too could fly! I wasn't going to die because I could fly!

"I'll live forever," I remember thinking. Nothing could touch me. I could fly!

Silly it seems now, and seemed then, when after what seemed only minutes, I felt my strength begin to weaken. I had to leave my beautiful joy up in my beautiful sky as I faltered and landed none too gently among some trees below. I was myself again: fast, strong, fierce, and miserable.

I like to think that it was I up in those clouds, free and happy, caught up in the dizzying joy of flight. I like to think that's the real me.

But it's not. The second I touched the ground, I remembered my hate, my revenge, my pain. I remembered myself.

That will inside me, that will to live, it was no longer the pure thing it had been on that cliff: it was twisted and joyless, a

canker eating away at me inside.

It was simple again: a different kind of simple. I had to kill Goku. Who was Goku? I didn't have the slightest idea. But I'd know him when I saw him, or my father would through my eyes. I could feel his sudden anger washing over me. How dare his son know joy?

But his son did know flight, and that would come in handy.

I began to travel the world, staying longer in places I found I enjoyed, perhaps establishing a sort of "home", where I could go rest, tend whatever injuries I had sustained, and have some peace and quiet for a time. I wandered across continents, through the Himalayas, the Gobi Desert, into the deepest Indian jungles and up onto the barren flats of Siberia. That was rare though; I've always preferred the warm places to the cold. 

Upon one of my long journeys through China I found a poster pasted to a telephone pole. It advertised in several languages the World Martial Arts Tournament taking place upon a lone island no great distance away. I noted this with mild interest, reading over the marketing jargon coolly. "Will you be the one to defeat the current champion, Tienshinhan? Watch the runner up, Son Goku, try his luck in hand-to-hand combat! Come! Claim the title of Champion of the World today!"

Goku. Son Goku was going to be there! This was the chance I had been waiting for. I was entering in this tournament.

It was an easy decision to make. If I won, I could kill Goku and be free of my father's influence forever. If I lost, Goku would summarily kill me, and I would also be free of my father. I would die as my own man. So either way, I would win, but I would naturally prefer life. Besides, I was much stronger than my father had been. It should have been easy.

That night I fell asleep, resting up for the big day. In my dreams, I saw myself standing triumphant over a fallen Goku. It was a prophecy. I believed completely that I would win.

The problem with prophecy, however, is that you only see fragmented pieces of events. I saw myself standing tall above Goku, but I didn't see that seconds later, he had risen to fight again. Oh sure, the other fights had been easy. I had destroyed most of my opponents. But Goku was another matter. Just when I thought I had won, he came back as strong as ever. That was an amazing fight that day. We strove against one another for survival, each believing that if they lost, their life was forfeit.

Finally, it was I who fell, unable to rise again. I could feel the blood pouring from my injuries. They would be fatal soon enough, if I wasn't able to heal them quickly. I knew that I wouldn't be fast enough, exhausted as I was from my last attack. The crowd, or what was left of the crowd, seemed quiet but for the cries of "Serves you right, you monster!" and the like. No one was about to lift a finger to help me.

At least I didn't think so. I heard a soft voice come from above me, the harshness of battle completely gone from its gentle tones. Son Goku knelt by my head with his hand stretched out. "Here," he said, "Eat this. It'll make you feel better." He proffered a small rounded bean, and when he saw that I was unable to take it, he pushed it gently into my mouth. I chewed and swallowed, unsure of what was happening. A moment passed and I lay there, dying, when suddenly I felt strength flowing into my limbs. My wounds closed themselves up, and miraculously, all the pain was gone.

Stunned, I leaped up to look directly into Goku's gently smiling face. "What did you do?" I demanded of him, pure confusion setting in. 

"I gave you a Senzu bean. It heals you instantly. Isn't that great?"

That only confused me more. "Why?"

"You didn't deserve to die."

Mercy. It was something completely foreign to me. And I was suddenly angry. Son Goku had spoiled my perfect plans. How could he let me live? Didn't he know better? So instead of thanking him for helping me live, I snarled a death threat and flew away.

The look of confusion on his face must have mirrored my own.

It was such a long flight home. Long enough, in fact, to lift my spirits a little. Maybe Goku really did do me a favor by letting me live. Life wasn't all bad. How can one think of death while flying? There are so many other better things to see and feel. The wind stinging your face ever so slightly as it rushes by, the scream of the gulls as they dip and soar, the play of the setting sun upon the ocean... all these things are much more important than anything else in my life.

Who knows? Maybe, someday, I'll fly again.

From Hell, with love,

Piccolo Daimao


	4. Pure Innocence

Dear Someone,

_Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, eh! I can smell that turkey already. Mmmm... turkey. Okay, I'm back. Thanks for reviewing, everyone. Today you get to see my take on one of my favourite 10-second scenes of DBZ. This is the last letter in the series, so after this, I'm on to bigger and better things (finally). Look for a new story sometime soon. Hopefully it'll be updated faster than this one was. So enjoy your Thanksgiving turkey, my fellow hosers, and to you Yanks, well, you've unfortunately still got a month to wait for yours. Bye!_

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From Hell, With Love

Dear Someone,

It's too quiet here. Everything is so quiet, so motionless, so dead. Well, maybe that's not so surprising, given where I am. But you really start to notice it after a while. You can only be surrounded by death for so long before it begins to wear on you. You feel death all around you, in the air you breathe, in the water you drink, and it begins to dawn on you that you might just actually be dead. Not an encouraging thought.

I get up and I go drink water. My lungs still draw and expel the air that surrounds me. Does it really make any difference, any of this? Am I somehow any less dead because I drink the water? Or is it just a force of habit: something to hold on to now that everything else is gone?

That's what I'm doing, after all. I harbor no illusions. I cling to what remains of my life, of my time spent on Earth, to keep me in some semblance of existence, to keep me apart from the other wisps of spirits that are to be found everywhere in the pit. If I didn't do this, if I didn't try every day to remember who I was, I might join them. I would lose everything that makes me me and become nothingness, drifting aimlessly over this land that doesn't really exist, with all those dead things that once did.

I try to remember everything: the good, the bad, my strength, and my weakness. I try to remember myself and the others who made up my world, for if I forget, I am lost. If others forget me, I'm twice as dead as I am now.

That has always been my greatest fear: to be forgotten. Who knows where it comes from? I don't. I'm a warrior, not a psychologist. I understand best what I can see and feel, and I felt afraid whenever I thought that I could die and leave no mark upon the world. So I strived to change that through my actions. I destroyed Egypt, but they would rebuild. I killed Goku, but he would be wished back soon enough. Thus, I maintained an overwhelming desire to achieve something permanent. Panting, weak from the battle, I gazed at Radditz's body as similar thoughts ran through my mind. There must be something I could do!

And my eyes fell upon the boy.

I've tried to rationalize this decision many times over the years. He would become my weapon against the Saiyans. He would do anything I said. I could mould him into whatever I wished. If worst came to worst, he could be used as cannon fodder in the battle. The real reason, however, was to alleviate my fears. Someone was going to remember me when I was gone, and who better to do it than Goku's son? My generally pragmatic turn of mind was at work there. How could I not take the boy in? If he were unworthy, I would kill him. Simple.

So thinking, I scooped the gently slumbering child up into my arms and bore him away.

Nothing is ever simple. I should have known it then. He stopped crying soon enough, but I still had to endure his whining. He surprised me though. He was never afraid of me. He was shocked occasionally, surprised, or startled, but he never truly looked upon me with fear. That was new to me, and I found it endlessly confusing. I just couldn't understand how he could be so close to me, and yet never tremble.

He took whatever I gave him like a true warrior, uncomplaining and strong. I worked him to the bone, a little too hard I know, but they were trying times. But no matter how often I struck him down, he would always return smiling broadly, his childish laughter filling the air.

It was such a nice sound.Sweeter than the chime of a bell. I couldn't feel either anger or bitterness while Gohan laughed. I could only pause and admire the purity of his innocence. He was like me, I remember thinking. Just like I was before I came to know the world.

He was so innocent it hurt. 

"I'm having a birthday party, Piccolo-san," he announced one chill night as we sat under the stars.

I didn't answer, pretending to be deep in meditation as I gazed into the fire.

"I'm going to be five years old next week."

I still didn't answer, guessing where this was heading.

"I'd like it if you would come."

I concentrated even harder on the flames. His small childish hand came to rest on my shoulder. Only when I was sitting could he look me in the eye. He did so then, looking down at me with a pleading gaze. I didn't shift my own from the crackling fire.

"Please, Piccolo-san? Say you'll come. We'll have lots of fun. Please?"

I had to answer, but how to explain it to a child? "Gohan," I began, "people like me can't go to parties." 

He looked at me, confused. "Why not?" he asked.

"Because... other people don't like it when we do."

"Why?"

"They don't like me."

"But everybody would like you if you talked to them."

I turned my head away from his, baring my teeth slightly. "That's news to me."

"They would," he insisted. "If you'd just come..."

"Gohan!" I snapped. "The reason I can't go is because people hate anything different. The moment I set foot in the door there'd be cries of 'Demon!' and 'Monster!' going up all over the place, and all your guests would leave so fast that they wouldn't even take a piece of cake for the road. So I'm not going and that's that!"

"Oh," he whispered, taking his hand from my shoulder and sitting down next to me, chastened. We sat in awkward silence for a while, the chill wind blowing around us.

Gohan began to shiver. After a few moments of vainly trying to keep himself warm, he seemed to give up. I closed my eyes and turned my head away. A minute later, I felt his warm weight resting against my side. I growled softly in warning, a warning that he did not heed. I growled again, more forcefully this time, as he burrowed his way very nearly into my arms. The kid was freezing. Growl as I might, I didn't have the heart to push him away. So, he rested his curly head against my chest and closed his eyes, safe from the biting wind, trusting me completely. I pretended not to notice him.

Later, when I thought he was asleep, I heard him say softly, "I don't think you're so different, Piccolo-san. You breathe the same air, and your heart beats the same as anyone else's. You're my best friend, no matter what anyone says." His head reached up and his lips briefly touched my cheek in the purely innocent manner of an affectionate child. His head rested once more against my chest and he closed his eyes.

I stayed silent, staring off into the night. Soon enough, he really did fall asleep. 

Gently, I rolled him off of me and onto the ground. Standing, I pulled off my cape and placed it over the boy's small body, carefully tucking the warm fabric around him to ward off the chill. I sat next to the child, studying carefully his sweet features outlined by the firelight. Hesitantly, I reached down to touch him. He stirred, and I quickly withdrew my hand. But he settled again, and I gently ran my fingers through his soft curls, lightly tousling his hair.

"You're my best friend too, Gohan," I thought. "And so help me, I'm never going to let anything happen to you, I promise."

All these years I've kept that promise.

It's just one memory among many. But it's a happy one at least. Something to cling to in this dark eternity. This is the last letter you'll get, dear Someone, for I will get out soon, I think. There must be a way to get back to life. 

After all, I haven't forgotten it completely. I think my heart still beats.

From Hell, with love,

Piccolo Daimao


	5. Epilogue

Epilogue

Epilogue

The boy let the pages fall from his small hands, shaking his head in amazement. They dropped gently onto the smooth wooden floor of his father's bedroom with only the faintest whisper of sound. All was quiet within the small space, the boy lost completely in his thoughts. Through the open window he heard the laughter of his younger brothers as they wrestled together on the grass outside.

A long shadow fell over the doorway. "Daeron?" came his father's deep voice. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Startled, the boy looked up into the dark eyes of his father, eyes that were a mirror of his own.

"Daeron?" asked his father. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah..." he stammered. "Yeah Dad, I'm fine."

"Well, hurry up then. We're almost ready to go." The long shadow turned and disappeared around the side of the hallway.

He leaned underneath the bed, stretching for an object just a little out of reach.

"Daeron!" shouted the high, breathless voice of his youngest brother. "Come on!" The little boy ran into the room, followed closely by a bigger one. Their faces were flushed purple with exertion, and they panted, leaning under the bed after their older brother.

He pointedly ignored them, stretching farther until his hand finally closed about the end of his little fishing rod. With a shout of joy, he pulled it out and proudly displayed it to his younger siblings. 

"Dad says I get to use it 'cause I'm oldest."

"Not fair!" exclaimed the little one. "You have to share!"

The oldest boy laughed. "Of course. You'll beat me up if I don't."

"That's right. I'm gonna be a great fighter some day, just like Dad."

"I'm sure. You just take it outside to him, and I'll be out in a sec."

Out ran the two small children, overjoyed at the prospect of an adventure. 

Daeron was once again alone in the room. He slowly replaced the crumbling papers into the small box, gently replacing the lid and sliding the package back into its place under the bed, running through the words in his mind.

"Dear Someone. How disgustingly quaint."

"No regrets."

"I'll live forever."

"I think my heart still beats."

"If it were up to you, dear Someone, what would you choose?"

Daeron shook his head quickly and dashed out the door, only to be swept up easily into his father's strong arms, into a world of laughter. The letters were forgotten. 

He was going fishing!


End file.
